


Hidden Motive

by Bumblie_Bee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Car Accidents, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:05:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumblie_Bee/pseuds/Bumblie_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a call from Mycroft informing him that Sherlock had become the pedestrian victim in a car accident. He rushes to the hospital to be at his friends side, only to fine out things are slightly more sinister than they first appeared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watching From Afar

Mycroft sat in his office, paper work spread across the desk as he puzzled over the many documents from different governments. The file that he was working on at the moment was a tiresome yet important file to do with a treaty that was sure to bring about some sort of world peace. However he could not get it right. He knew Sherlock would probably solve the problems quicker but it was top secret and he didn't want to give in to asking his little brother for help. Anyway, there would be no point as he knew Sherlock would bluntly refuse. 

Mycroft gave up with a sigh and let his eyes travel to the expensive CCTV monitor that sat among the complicated papers. The screen showed his younger brother, the world’s only consulting detective, as he waited outside a glass building. The cars whizzed along the road as the younger man stood, leaning against the wall. He looked perfectly calm, as though he was waiting for a friend but Mycroft knew that his younger brother was agitated, waiting for something to happen, something important and obviously something to do with one of his blasted cases. They were such a waste of Sherlock’s intelligence but the more anyone tried to tell the boy what to do the more he would rebel. 

Mycroft also knew that he needed to get back to his work so drew his eyes away from the screen and back to the irksome papers cluttering the desk. The work was stupid and tiresome and it was at times like this that Mycroft regretted taking the "minor position in the British government". He worked for several more hours, taking occasional sneaking peaks at his brother, before his eyelids began to droop. He slipped his hands under his reading glasses in order to rub his tired eyes, pulling them away just in time to see a man in a suit slinking from the building. The man took a short glance over his shoulder and then broke into a frightened sprint as Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and took off after the suited man. The man charged down the path, pushing unexpecting members of the public aside in his bid for freedom. Sherlock ran after him, earning himself, what Mycroft assumed were angry yells as the monitor had no sound, from the already rattled pedestrians. 

The chase continued, down main-roads and backstreets, as Mycroft's cameras struggled to keep up with the charging men. The elder Holmes bother could see Sherlock was winning the race, the gap between the two men shrinking with every turn. Soon it would be over, the criminal caught, and Sherlock one again victorious over the police and the criminals alike. The suited man could tell this too, his run becoming panicked and his glances behind more frequent. He was obviously stupid or desperate to not be caught as at the next turn he ran straight into the road, Sherlock hot on his heals with his woollen coat flapping behind him. The man darted between two cars, missing them by a hair's width. Sherlock ran after him, concentration purely on the suited man, not noticing the speeding car until it hit. What happened was too quick even Mycroft's sharp eyes but the next thing he knew was that his little brother was lying in a road, coat spread dramatically over the black tarmac, his limbs awkwardly bent and dribbles of blood trickling down his forehead. 

Mycroft gasped, a hand flying up to his head and his heart pounding in his chest. This was the closest he had ever come to panicking, his normally calm exterior shattered as he jumped up from the desk, his chair clattering to the floor behind him in his haste. He ran to the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall towards his Anthea's office. He burst into the room, startling the unexpected lady. She shrieked slightly in fright, dropping her blackberry onto the desk with a clatter. Her brow furrowed slightly at the sight of her normally controlled boss panting and panicked in the doorway. 

"Mycroft, are you okay?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice as she absentmindedly stored her precious blackberry back in her pocket. 

"Sherlock's been knocked down!" he panted, eyes filled with worry for his little brother. Anthea nodded calmly as she got to her feet before grasping Mycroft's clammy hand and leading him back to his office. She noticed how his hand shook as she held it, showing the feelings that he always hid so deeply from everyone. The corridors were deserted and the sound of their footsteps echoed on the marble floor until they entered the carpeted office. Anthea led her boss back to his desk, picked up the fallen chair and left the room to call the people in charge of watching Sherlock for an update. 

Mycroft sat back down in his large leather chair as he tried to calm his breathing and reassure himself that his brother would be fine but he could not rid himself of the constant nagging fears that swirled in his mind. His eyes fixed themselves back on the screen in front of him, now showing a small crowd that had gathered around the motionless form of the younger Holmes brother. Mycroft forced himself to calm and surveyed the scene, trying to deduce the situation of the accident. On closer inspection the elder Holmes brother could see a large shattered bull’s-eye on the windscreen of the large green car that had hit the detective. This was not good; a bull’s-eye meant that his brother’s head must have hit the windscreen at a considerable force, a force large enough to usually cause brain problems. The driver of the car had gotten out and was kneeling on the road pushing Sherlock's charcoal curls away from a large cut on his forehead. The curls were sticky with the blood that left red rivers over the younger man's pale skin and trickled onto the road. The driver’s other hand was pressed against the detective’s neck, feeling for a pulse that Mycroft desperately hoped was present. 

The elder Holmes brother forced his eyes away from the screen on the cluttered desk and pulled his phone from his blazer pocket. Taking one last glance at the screen he pressed speed dial 4 and raised his shaking phone to his ear. The call answered on the third ring.   
"John, Sherlock's been hit down."


	2. Phone Calls and Taxi Rides

John was slumped in his favourite chair with his eyes shut in a way that would have made Sherlock proud when he heard the repetitive ringing of his phone somewhere across the room. He huffed in annoyance and opened his eyes as he stumbled across the room, a little light headed from sleep. It was probably Sherlock calling and John knew he would only make the mistake once of not answering the consulting detectives call when he was on a case. He had wanted to go with his friend that morning but the younger Holmes had bluntly refused, saying that whatever he was doing was a "one man job". John had sulked about the rejection for a while before he finally fell asleep in his chair, still worn out from the tiring week at the surgery. When the phone was finally located, under Sherlock’s still half full cup of tea, he was surprised to see Mycroft's name as the caller ID. Confused, John pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear. 

"Hello?" 

"John, Sherlock's been hit down" came Mycroft's icy voice through the phone, sending shivers down his spine. The bluntness of the comment confused him; maybe he had heard it wrong? 

"What?" asked John, his brain refusing to accept what he had just been told.

"I know you heard me correctly, John. Sherlock was knocked down by car on Oxford Street, he ran into a road. I think it might be best if you go to him, you are his Doctor after all." continued the elder Holmes brother, his voice as calm and empty of emotion as always. From the way he spoke you could never guess that his little brother had just been hit by a car. 

"Where is he?" asked John, finding it hard to keep his voice from shaking. 

"They will take him to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."   
John nodded slightly wondering whether or not to try and find Sherlock on Oxford Street or drive straight to the hospital. He needn't have worried for long as Mycroft's cold voice interrupted his thoughts, doing that creepy mind reading thing that Sherlock excelled at; maybe it was a Holmes thing? 

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffics awful" drawled the elder Holmes, his perfect calmness obvious even down the phone line. John swallowed loudly, his body frozen in shock. He didn't want to believe the news but he knew it was the sort of thing that could happen to Sherlock, he had seen the detective rush across busy roads before, missing his death by a second. It was such a Sherlock thing to do, he could become so wrapped up in his own head that he would forget what was happening around him. 

Eventually John became aware of the high-pitched dial tone emerging from the phone that was still clamped to his ear. Slowly he lowered it, his brain coming back into focus. He needed to get to Sherlock. Shoving the phone in his pocket he darted across the room before thundering down the stairs. 

"Sherlock’s been run down!" he yelled at Mrs Hudson’s door on his way past, hoping she was in and not bothering to stop for a reply. He fumbled with the lock even though his hands were perfectly steady, but eventually the wooden door swung open. The blast of cold air cut him like a knife as he stepped onto the street, reminding him of the coat that was still up in the flat. Annoyingly, Baker Street was completely void of taxies. John had gained a compete jealousy of Sherlock's ability to hail cabs and have them flying up to meet him shortly after their first case but John had never, never wanted that ability as much as he did now. 

John huffed in annoyance as he started running down the road towards Crawford Street deciding that even slow progress was better than no progress. Anyway he was more likely to find a cab on one of the larger roads. Mid-way down Baker Street a black cab loomed in the distance. John raised his hand, waving wildly, needing this cab to stop. He nearly jumped for joy when the yellow indicator flashed, showing the cab was pulling over. 

The drive to Saint Bart’s was not a long trip really; Sherlock made it there most days, either to look at bodies or to beg Molly for more gruesome science experiments or just to “borrow” the lab equipment. Occasionally he even walked there. But the drive took forever for John with only his racing heartbeat the worries for company. It was one of those days that when you’re in a rush every single set of lights would change to red and it would take twice the normal time to get wherever you were going. The traffic slowed as they neared the Hospital, increasing Johns fidgeting enough to alert the driver. 

“I’m sorry for the traffic, mate. Apparently someone was knocked down on Oxford Street, caused quite a jam” the driver explained, glancing back at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. 

“Yea, I know.” Replied John, trying and failing to keep his voice normal. “It was my flatmate. That’s why I’m…” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” mumbled the driver, unsure how to reply as the car lapsed back into silence. 

The driver didn’t try to restart the conversation after that, leaving John to wander in his thoughts. Had Mycroft actually said anything other than that Sherlock had been hit? John didn’t think so but couldn’t work out if this was good or bad news. Or maybe the elder Holmes brother didn’t know. No, that was impossible: Mycroft knew everything. The puzzling thoughts filled John’s mind until the driver of the cab coughed loudly. John startled and opened his eyes, trying to remember closing them in the first place.   
“We’re here” the driver said, nodding his head slightly towards the window. It was true, outside the window of the parked car was the expensive front door to the hospital.  
“Oh, thanks” Mumbled John as he rummaged in his pockets before sighing when he remembered that his wallet was still in his coat. And that his coat was still in the flat.   
“Don’t worry about it, drives on me” Grinned the cabbie, noticing John’s hurried searching followed by the sigh. 

“Um, thanks so much.” He replied quickly as he scrambled from the cab. Without a glance behind him, John crossed the path, then, with his heart hammering in his throat, he hurried up the stone steps towards the gliding glass doors of Saint Bart’s.


	3. The Darker Side Of Waiting

Chapter 3:   
The Darker Side of Waiting 

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffic’s awful” drawled Mycroft, not letting a drop of emotion slip into his voice. He was good at that, well he had to be, considering his past. When John didn’t reply he lowered the trembling phone from his ear, pressed the red button and set it calmly on the desk in front of him. The desk was still cluttered with papers, and Mycroft’s elbows slipped slightly as he rested his head in his hands, sliding them under the glasses that he didn’t realise he was still wearing. He rubbed his tired eyes, wanting nothing better than to go to sleep and forget everything but he knew that it was impossible, presides he had to deal with Sherlock sooner or later. With a sigh he looked back at the monitor on the desk, surprised to find that the camera had been zoomed in, showing his brother lying in the road in scary clarity. He could see everything. The ambulance crew had arrived and were rolling the young detective onto a stretcher, keeping his back and neck perfectly in line. This frightened Mycroft, but what terrified him more was the sight of the normally hyperactive detective laying still, his eyes shut and the long jagged cut on his forehead. 

Mycroft watched through the camera as Sherlock’s left leg, head, and neck were immobilised, his heart fluttering in his chest. He hated this, feeling so helpless. His little brother was in serious trouble but all he could do was watch through a bloody camera. The feeling reminded him so much of his childhood, the unpleasant memories gushing back like a waterfall. The eldest Holmes son only looked away from the scene in front of him when his little brother was wheeled into the ambulance and that ambulance had driven away. He glanced up, surprised to see the slightly hazy form of Anthea sitting across the room in a large armchair, typing away furiously on her BlackBerry as normal. The slightly blurriness of the room reminded him to finally take off the glasses that had been sitting on his nose much longer than necessary. He slipped them off, shutting them in the case with a snap and storing them in the breast pocket of his jacket. 

Mycroft glanced at his watch, noticing that he had another 3 hours before he could visit Sherlock without looking overly concerned about his brother, which was something he was definitely not willing to do. Sherlock would be annoyed with him anyway, well if he were conscious that was. No, Mycroft felt that his presence at Sherlock’s bed side too soon would cause more problems than it would solve and he didn’t want to upset his brother at the best of times. Knowing he was not going to get any more work done now he put the precious papers back in their folder and then locked the folder in the hidden safe inside his desk. After sitting for mere seconds with only the clicking of Anthea’s BlackBerry keys breaking the silence he had had enough. 

“Tea?” Mycroft asked suddenly as scraped his chair back, unable to stand the quiet any longer. 

“Oh, yes please” Anthea answered casually, still not looking up from her phone. Mycroft loved having Anthea as his PA but he had to admit the constant texting was beginning to get annoying; he couldn't talk to her anymore. 

Fetching the tea didn't take long at all and soon Mycroft was back in his leather chair, in exactly the same situation as before but now with a cup of tea placed neatly on the desk. Anthea sipped hers quietly, texting one handed all the while. He took a glance at the golden watch on his wrist, burying his head in his hands when he realised the time. Only 175 long minutes of waiting left. 

~~~

The main reception was thriving when John rushed through the automatic glass doors, almost bumping into them in his haste. There were doctors milling about, patients and visitors too but John paid them no attention as he wandered up to the main desk. The receptionist looked up from the computer screen when she heard him approaching. She was youngish, with dark straight hair and big brown eyes which opened wider when she noticed the retired Army doctor storming towards her. 

“Hello, how can I help?” she asked trying to keep her voice buoyant as one does in a receptionist job. 

“I’m looking for my, er, friend. He was knocked down by a car, do you know if he has been brought in yet?

“Name?” she asked, clicking quickly on the mouse of the computer, eyes flashing from side to side as she read. 

“Sherlock Holmes” he answered roboticly, “But I don’t know if he was conscious when they brought him in so they might not know his name”   
“No, no Sherlock Holmes here.” She paused for a moment, still clicking furiously. “There was a call out for an unnamed white male who was hit down on Oxford Street about quarter of an hour ago though. Could that be who you’re looking for?” 

“Um, yes, sounds like him. Where can I-”

“If you go down that corridor to your right you’ll get to a waiting room. Someone will come and inform you of what has happened when they can. Until then you’ll just have to wait” she interrupted calmly. 

“But I need to-” John argued, still unsure what he was planning on finishing that sentence with when the receptionist spoke over him.

"Are you family?" Her voice was hard. John froze, he knew only family could be taken directly to the patient. The nurse raised he eyebrows at him, correctly seeing his hesitation as a 'no'. 

“Then there is nothing more I can do to help you, so please go to the waiting room” she snapped, arms crossed and her good receptionist mood now absent.

“Look I need to know what-”

“Look, Sir, if you do not leave this desk now then I will have to have you removed from the hospital” she warned, angrily. 

John turned on his heal, huffing in frustration as he marched away from the desk and down the corridor on his right. 

True to the receptionists word a large waiting area sat midway down the corridor. It was filled with those horrid blue hospital benches but the room was nearly empty of life, only a few small clusters of people. They all had the same anxious look on their faces, a complete contrast, he reminded himself, to the livid one he was wearing. He took a seat, the hard blue plastic digging into his back as he leaned his head against the wall behind him. John had seen many car accident victims in his short career in London and had had to tell many families the news they had been waiting for. He had seen so many different reactions, the good, where the families shakily laughed in relief that everything was going to be okay, or cried in joy, or simply hugged. But then he had seen the bad, the news where whole families would tear up, sobbing on each other’s shoulders or sit in shocked silence, wondering what the world held for them now, the impact this would have. He couldn't help wondering to himself which reaction he would give when the news was finally told.

And that was the problem with waiting, it gave you time to think, time to mull things over in your head, time for niggling little thoughts to grow and grow until they filled your mind and drove you mad. And so John hated this, the waiting. He was normally such a patient person but somehow he was unable to tolerate the long spaces of empty time that surrounded him. The waiting allowed his mind to wander, dream up all sorts of terrible scenarios, was Sherlock going to ever wake up, would he die from some internal injuries, would he be brain damaged? The list went on and on, the dreaded thoughts thundering in his brain, consuming him, drowning him.

He physically jumped when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. It was a Doctor, wearing blue scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck. He looked exhausted and, for a second, John felt his heart drop in fear. 

“John Watson?” the doctor asked, his voice calm, showing no emotion. 

The retired army doctor swallowed noisily. “Yes” he replied, his heart thrumming in his throat.


	4. Hospital Visits

Both John and the doctor were silent as they hurried through the long winding corridors of the hospital and the lift ride was even quieter without their shoes tapping gently on the polished floor, leaving only the mechanic whirring to fill the gapping silence. John didn’t feel like saying anything and the other doctor seemed reluctant to look at John let alone speak. For the life of him, john couldn’t work out why but he made a promise to himself that he would never let it become this awkward in a lift when he got back to work. Eventually, the metallic ping and the running of the doors signified their freedom from the lift and John followed the doctor out, down a few more white corridors until the came to a halt outside Room 78. Slowly, the doctor pushed the door open before stepping back to allow John to enter.

Sherlock was awake when he entered the room and the horrid images of a near-death Sherlock washed from his mind by a staggering relief. Mycroft had left very little information to go on when he had called, and John had taken this as a sign of bad news. However, the detective was sitting up in the white bed in his pyjamas leaning back against the pillows with his hands in his lap with the I.V wire trailing across the white sheets. John had feared the worst but the only visible sign of the accident was the large, white patch stuck to the detective’s forehead and even that was half covered by this dark curls. 

He was looking down at his hands, fiddling with his nails and pretending that he had not noticed anyone enter the room. John was sure he had though, Sherlock never missed anything. The army doctor looked back at the other man who was standing silently by the door. He seemed to understand the glance though and left the room without saying a word. As soon as the door had clicked shut Sherlock had looked up from his hands which he clasped together and rested back in his lap. Doctoring instinct taking over John moved forward and snatched the medical chart from the end of his friend’s bed, flipping it open to the page written shortly after he had arrived at A&E. 

“Un-named male, Pedestrian Victim in a car to pedestrian collision. Possible impact sites of upper left leg, abdomen, chest, and head (Bull’s-eye cracks found on windscreen). Patient in unconscious and unresponsive with blunt force injuries to forehead, CT scan advised. X-Rays on chest and Left leg/hip advised. Bruising to abdomen, no signs of internal bleeding found as yet.” John read, as he paced the small room in frustration. 

“You’re limping, John” Sherlock pointed out curiously from the bed, his voice low and steady as normal. 

“I’m limping?” he asked with his voice hard as he span to face his friend. “You’re going to be the one bloody limping! What were you even thinking when you ran into that road? You could have been killed, you know?” 

“But I wasn’t, killed, I mean. I’m fine Jo-” Sherlock started, his voice bold in the angry room. 

“Well that’s fine then” Said John, the anger still present in his voice. “Sherlock Holmes is going to be fine so all is well” He paused, running his fingers through his hair in apparent frustration. “Sorry, but do you know how worried I was? I got a call from your idiot of a brother telling me you had been hit down and were on your way to hospital and then the cab driver said we couldn’t get through because the accident had caused such a backlog…Sorry” he trailed off, walking across the room to sit in the chair at Sherlock’s bedside, the medical document still held in his hand. 

“I’m sorry, John” Sherlock sighed eventually, his eyes carefully watching for any reaction from the man across the room. John lifted his head. An apology was unexpected, to say the least, it was just something that wasn’t said by the sociopathic detective, but the look in Sherlock’s eye showed that the words had meaning to them. It was a proper ‘sorry’ then, one that was meant, not just the sort said out of habit or politeness. John drew in a breath and forced himself to calm, his gaze lowering to fix on the hands in his lap. He didn’t reply and the room drifted silent. 

John eventually looked up to see Sherlock still sitting up in bed but his head was now drooping and his eyes were halfway shut. He looked exhausted and the question of a concussion flickered into John’s mind. 

“Did your results come back?” he asked, his voice softer as indicating the folder he still held in his hands. Sherlock paused for a moment as though in thought before he shook his head slowly. John sighed and he felt his eyebrows furrow as he looked at his friend. The detective was flagging now, that much was clear. He bent forwards, looking into the unfocused eyes of his friend. 

“Uh, I think you’re concussed” 

“Undoubtedly” admitted Sherlock, a slight grin on his pale face. He closed his eyes and his head dropped, jerking up again before it even reached his chin as he tried to keep himself awake. 

“Why don’t you get some rest” suggested John his eyes filled with a sudden sympathy. 

“Concussion” Said Sherlock pointedly, lifting his hand to rest a finger on his temple. The IV line trailed too, reminding John of the colourless liquid that was being pumped into his friend’s blood. It was saline, probably, to keep him hydrated but some sort of pain relief was also a possibility. 

“Doctor” returned John, nodding at himself and Sherlock rolled his eyes as best he could before lowering himself back onto his pillows with a wince. He tried to say something in reply but he was gone before his head had barely hit the pillow. 

~~~

There was a soft knock on the wooden door shortly after Sherlock had drifted off. He stirred slightly at the noise and mumbled something incoherent but did not fully awake. John got up to answer the door but it had opened before he was even half way across the room and Mycroft slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.   
He was wearing a dark grey suit and dressed to perfection as always but John was just beginning to see the slight cracks in his façade. He held a folded shirt and trousers in one hand with a jacket on a hanger on his wrist. Silently he stepped towards the bed in the center of the room, his eyes fearfully fixed only on his younger brother. 

“Just asleep,” John supplied, crossing the room back to his chair. Mycroft nodded and tore his eyes from the figure in the bed, moving to sit in the chair on the other side of the Sherlock to the one that John occupied. He put the clothes on the end of the bed and crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees, the golden ring on his right hand glinting in the lowered light of the room. 

“Prognosis?” he asked, his head tilting in question. John sucked in a breath through his lips and leant back in his chair. 

“Uh, head wound, concussion. Some sort of injury to his left leg although I doubt his femur is broken, possible broken ribs” He shrugged slightly. “I haven’t any results so I can’t say for sure.” Mycroft’s expression remained blank but he glanced down at his brother on the bed.

Sherlock was lying on his back with his head turned to the side to burrow into the pillow. His expression was pinched, from the pain, John supposed, and he grimaced occasionally in his sleep. John knew he preferred to sleep cured up on his side but it was likely that his ribs and leg would be hurting him. His heart rate was strong and steady, though, and it left a reassuring beeping in the room from the monitors. 

“Sherlock won’t be happy if he wakes to find you here, Mycroft,” Said John after a minute, glancing up at the man who sat opposite him in the small room. Mycroft looked up too, his head tilting again. 

“No, I don’t suppose he will be,” replied the elder Holmes thoughtfully. He glanced back at his brother once more before rising to his feet. “Give Sherlock my regards, if you will,” he smiled a fake smile as he crossed the room and opened the wooden door. “Good day, Doctor Watson.”

~~~

Barely five minutes after Mycroft left there was another knock at the door. This one was louder and Sherlock awoke with a jump shortly followed by a short hiss of pain. John jumped to his feet in order to help his friend but thought better of it when Sherlock threw the covers over his head in protest and turned to face the door as it opened. It was a lady who looked to be in her early forties with a green folder in her hand, she glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on her patient in the bed. 

“Is he asleep?” she asked, her gaze flicking between John and the bed. She looked worried. John was about to reply when Sherlock mumbled from under the covers. The doctor smiled slightly at her patient but then turned to John and opened the file in her hands. 

“I just brought his results from his X-ray,” She said, pulling a sheet of paper from the fill and studying it for a moment before looking back up. “No breakages to his ribs but the bruising on his chest will make him sore for a bit.” She flipped to a new image and studied it again before frowning slightly. “His hip bone is cracked slightly though; it’s commonly known as a hip pointer, although normally the bone isn’t cracked, it’s just muscle damage.” John grimaced at the news and held his hand out for the X-ray which the doctor handed over without issue. 

“It will limit the movement and strength in this leg for a couple of weeks but with rest and ice it should recover without any medical interference. Once he feels able to it he can begin light exercise but he should try to keep his weight off it for the next week at least,” She explained as John studied the X-ray image and Sherlock groaned quietly from under the sheets. 

“I read about a CT scan on his head being advised too?” John asked and the doctor shook her head. 

“No, he was awake and communicating before his time slot came so we cancelled it. He does have a concussion, although it’s surprisingly moderate for the time he spent unconscious. I just need to check that for him and then there isn’t any other reason to keep him here,” she said with a smile as she turned to face the bed. Sherlock pushed the cover down before heaving himself up into a sitting position. His hair was ruffled worse than ever but his eyes were brighter than before and there was a pink glow in his cheeks from having his head under the covers. He let the doctor shine a torch into his eyes and smiled when she said he was free to go. He sat quietly whilst she removed his IV line too.   
Both The doctor and John left the room then whilst Sherlock changed into the clothes his brother had brought and John was given a prescription for pain killers and a strict word not to let Sherlock sleep for over three hours at a time until his pupils returned to the same size. She said goodbye then, leaving him on his own just as Sherlock opened the door, his expression sour and his left arm wrapped tight around his chest. 

“Sherlock, sit down!” John exclaimed as he pulled his friend’s arm over his shoulder and helped him over to the bed. Sherlock winced a bit at the movement but flopped back on to the bed all the same, a hand still held on his chest.

“What part of ‘he should try and keep his weight off it’ do you not understand?” asked John, the exasperation clear in his voice.


	5. When Nothing Makes Sense

It took longer to release Sherlock than John had first thought it would and it was dark by the time they had left the hospital. It had taken a great deal of time to get him to use the crutches he had been given because a) Sherlock was very, very stubborn and, b) he had never used them before in his life and the hospital staff would not let him leave before he was able to navigate stairs on them. John had decided that it was unlikely for Sherlock to never have been told to use crutches before so he had either refused to use them or had deleted the information since then. It probably didn’t help matters that the detective’s concussion was making him tired and grouchy and Sherlock was never compliant even at the best of times.

He had been sulking at the time too, and would not snap out of it even when John had hissed to him he was acting like a child. The sulk had started when they had been given the bag of Sherlock’s belongings he had had with him at the time of the accident. His phone was in the bag, and his wallet, and his shoes, and the numerous other items Sherlock had kept in the pockets of his great coat but neither his clothes nor the coat itself were there. Sherlock hadn’t given a second thought about his clothes because even though they were worth a lot of money they were easily replaced. The coat was a different matter though. He had demanded it be given back, yelling furiously when he was told it had been cut off of him in the A&E and giving everyone around him a headache, never mind his own concussion.

Still he had given up eventually, collapsing into the wheelchair they had brought with little resistance. He had tired himself out and his pain killers would be wearing off by now, leaving him with an aching leg and chest and what was no doubt now a pounding deep within his head. They had walked to the main road from the hospital to find a taxi, Sherlock stumbling along on his crutches with his head now drooping and John walking close beside just in case.

He had slumped into his seat as soon as he was settled into the taxi, his head resting on the cooling glass of the window and his eyes tightly shut. John had quietly told the driver the address and had then sat in silence, watching at Sherlock fell asleep with the dark glass dulling the pounding in his head. His leg was hurting him too, and it being bent up to fit in the cab certainly wasn’t helping him at all.

The drive back to Baker Street wasn’t long, barely even quarter of an hour in the early evening traffic but it was still a struggle for John to rouse his friend when they got home. He swayed on the spot when he was helped from the cab, his crutches held weakly and his blinks slow and heavy. John paid for the cab using the money from Sherlock’s wallet as his own was still inside the flat along with his coat and unfortunately his keys. He asked Sherlock if he had taken a key with him that morning, although knowing his friend, he doubted he had.

The detective looked puzzled for a moment before slowly shaking his head. He shut his eyes then, swaying slightly on the spot, before replying. “Weren’t planning on going out, in a mood, probably slept” he mumbled, his eyes still shut and his posture limp. John swore quietly before knocking at the door for Mrs Hudson.

 

Sherlock nearly fell once during the wait and would have hit the floor, saved only by John’s lightning quick reactions and surprising strength for someone so small. John sat his friend down on the step after that, watching with worry as his eyes fluttered to stay open and his head lolled onto the doorframe. He hadn’t protested at all, a fact which worried John more than the sleepiness.

Both men were shivering by the time Mrs Hudson opened the door. She was still dressed and was wearing an apron. She had been cooking then, something she mainly did when she was bored or worried. Her expression told she was worried though, and she stood back to led John in.

“Oh, John, Thank goodness! I was so worried, how-” she began asking, only to be cut off by John as he held out the crutches he had in his hands.

“I’m Sorry Mrs Hudson, but can you please hold these?” the army doctor asked as he thrust the pair of crutches towards his landlady. She opened her mouth to protest but took the crutches, her eyes following him as he bent down to help Sherlock from the floor. He opened his eyes blearily at the motion but let John put and arm round his chest and haul him unsteadily to his feet.

 “Oh, Sherlock dear! I didn’t see you down there!” she exclaimed, concern in her eyes as she held the door open for John, her gaze flying over her tenant and resting on the white patch on his forehead. She shut the door when they were both inside, resting the crutches against the wall. John half dragged Sherlock to the stairs, setting him down on the steps and letting him lean his head back against the wall. Mrs Hudson followed them, her expression anxious.

“Is he okay?” she asked worriedly. The question was aimed at John but it was Sherlock who replied first.   

“Perfectly fine” sighed the detective sleepily, staring at his landlady through glazed eyes.

~~~

The night that followed was hard for all who were involved. The first task was getting Sherlock up the stairs to their flat. He was nearly asleep and couldn’t put any weight on his left leg now that his pain meds had worn off. His ribs were hurting him too which made supporting him harder.  John had been annoyed to discover that Sherlock’s bed was unmade and covered with science equipment, clothes, books and other irrelevant things and it had taken Mrs Hudson nearly as long to clean it as it had taken John to get Sherlock in to his pyjamas. Eventually, however, the detective was asleep and Mrs Hudson went back downstairs with a whispered ‘goodnight’ to John.

John himself ad not retired to his own bed, choosing to settle in the armchair in Sherlock’s room instead. It wasn’t comfortable and the blanket he had taken kept sliding to the floor but with his friend’s concussion having such an effect on him he considered it a necessity. He set his alarm on his phone before he drifted off, letting it wake him three hours later as planned. He checked on Sherlock, waking him gently just to check that he could. The detective had opened his eyes, his gaze unfocussed in the darkened room.

“’m tryin’ t’ sleep, J’hn” he muttered, turning onto his side away from his friend. John smiled.

“Yeah, I know, and I’m just making sure you’re not drifting off too deep.” Sherlock muttered something in reply but had fallen asleep again when he was asked to repeat what he had said. John sighed and took himself back to his chair, setting his alarm again before letting himself slip back off.

~~~

John was woken by the sun the next morning, his phone held limply in his hand. It was just after seven and the screen of his phone told him he had another hour before he needed to check on his friend. He stood slowly, stretching out the aches in his back and shoulder before crossing the room to check on Sherlock. The detective was still asleep, his head turned away from the light.

Sherlock slept for most of the day, waking only briefly every few hours when John went through to rouse him and give him his medicine. If he was asleep the painkillers weren’t really needed but the anti-inflammatory would help his leg. He winced a lot when he was awake and muttered incoherently in his sleep. John had spent much of the day tidying the flat and checking on Sherlock. He only left their flat once, and that was only to go down to Mrs Hudson to ask her to take Sherlock’s prescription to the pharmacy. She had agreed without hesitation and had brought back the medication along with a couple of days food supply little under an hour later. His sleeping continued into the night too, and John was forced to spend another night in the chair beside his friend.

~~~

Sherlock woke confused and lost in the morning with a dull pounding in his head and an ache in his chest that throbbed with every breath. He knew he was in his bed, but that was a fact confusing in itself. He never slept in his bed, taking most of his post-case naps on the sofa instead. It had just been habit at first, but then when his bed became buried under all the rubbish he had piled on top of it he simply couldn’t be bothered to uncover it just to sleep.

The pain in his head and chest suggested he had been injured somehow, which was confirmed by the patch stuck to his forehead and the tenderness of the skin underneath when he pushed on it. Head injury then, caused by impact, undoubtedly. The fact that he couldn’t remember the incident and the pounding in his head suggested a concussion but that still didn’t help to explain how he had got to his bed, let alone how it was now clear. That would be John’s doing probably, because if he had come home by himself then he would have just gone to sleep on the sofa. Besides, someone had put stitches his head.

Was John with him then when it had happened or had he come home and John had found him here? He tried to remember if he had been on a case at the time of the incident, and he decided he had, something to do with desks on the ceiling, although that didn’t make much sense to him now. Opening his eyes, he examined the room for information, instantly spotting the crutches propped in the corner of the room. He had injured a leg then, by the looks of things, and been to hospital too, either that or John had taken them at some point. That wasn’t a very likely possibility though, because if he needed crutches then John was sure to have taken him for an x-ray just to be sure.

Curiously he sat up, instantly feeling a burning in his left thigh. He hissed through his teeth, clamping his eyes shut at the unexpected sensation. When it faded he opened them again, noticing for the first time the rumpled blanket hanging over the arm of the chair at the bottom of his bed. John had slept here then, for more than one night by the looks of the blanket. That fitted with his diagnosis of concussion, but the ‘more than one night’ part of his deduction bothered him.

He needed to speak to John, because although he wasn’t worried about his own condition, the lack of details that his memory could provide was disconcerting at least. Slowly he pushed himself up from the bed and hobbled across the room towards the doorway. His leg flared with every step and nothing sat quite still in his vision but those where facts that could be ignored for the time being. John must have heard him as he entered the kitchen, because he hurried down the stairs, a look of mixed relief and anger on his face.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” he demanded, slipping an arm under Sherlock’s shoulder and helping him to limp towards the sofa.

“Needed to ask you-” started Sherlock, breaking off to clamp his jaw when a particularly large hop jarred both his leg and chest simultaneously. John muttered an apology but continued towards the sofa, knowing it would be better to get his friend there now rather than stop half way.

The detective let out a sigh when he was helped onto the sofa, shutting his eyes and breathing hard despite the ache in his chest. John was standing before him when he re-opened his eyes, a glass of water in one hand and two three white pills held out in the other. He took them and swallowed the water, downing it in one.

“What was it you needed?” asked John when Sherlock looked back up at him, the glass now held limply in one hand. Sherlock paused for a second before speaking, a strange look of confusion in his eyes.

“How long had I been unconscious?” he asked curiously, completely avoiding the question.

“Ugh, you weren’t unconscious, more asleep really. And the accident was the day before last so it’s been a day and a bit.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion, he had been asleep that long? I did make sense when he thought about it though, tied in with the now fading pounding in his head and the blanket beside the chair. He nodded for a second before his mind caught up with the rest of John’s little speech. He had said accident.

“What accident?” he asked sharply, turning back to John who was still beside the sofa, the empty glass in his hand. He looked at Sherlock for a second before replying.

“You don’t remember?” he asked, his expression now filled with worry.   


End file.
